


The Turning Spear

by Kes



Series: Thor 2 Rewritten: The Shaded Tree [2]
Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon, Gen, Politics, Vanaheimr | Vanaheim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-15
Updated: 2014-03-15
Packaged: 2018-01-15 20:55:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1318861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kes/pseuds/Kes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There were two battles for Vanaheim, and the hearts of the victors rest uneasy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Turning Spear

Sif goes with Thor to meet with the Keystone Circle of Youghai with blood still in her hair and the blood muster still unheld. This sort of battle is not the sort they entered in the heroic tales; the day’s action will be remembered only as thrust and counterthrust, and the overbearing intervention of the throne-heir. (She tries not to resent that.) Nothing will remain of this conference, held afoot because none will sit before the others, this desperate battle of words for Vanaheim.

“How can we have faith in Asgard’s ability to protect us when our homes lie burning?” a woman with hair wrapped elaborately into a headdress twice the width of her shoulders says.

“It’s true that Asgard has been troubled lately, but the troubles are done,” Thor says, and his words betray to her who shares his language that he is uneasy, unsure.

She is standing at his left, and moves for the strike as though in the field. “There would have been no trouble here had you held faith and not gone meddling with the dark underbelly of Yggdrasill. These scum could not have got here without the paths that you opened.”

An ancient woman in a chair perched atop four intricately carved stumps, the Elder, shakes her head and rasps, “I remember my elders tell me the days before your folk came burning across these hills, and never did we fear the outer worlds then.”

“That was a harsher time, great Elder.” Unlike the Asgardians, Hogun abides by the protocol of his homeland in offering the Elder and the Circle courtesies. “We were held back by our need to meet the demands of war, but we are a folk of peace now.”

“We, says he, the man who forsook his home for the spears of Asgard.”

“I left, but did not forsake.”

“Hogun has long been a voice for your people in the highest circles of Asgard. The trade conditions on green amul, as favourable to you as they are, are his doing, and that is but the least of his actions. Regarding his words… he is right. Asgard would not have any of the nine realms forced to assume the burden of war. We are still the most powerful force in and around Yggdrasill, and will continue to protect you, as is our duty.”

As Thor speaks, she looks around the room. The Circle is divided, she can see that much, and there are less than there should be, as though some stayed away. Contemplating the reasons gives her contradictory possibilities, and she almost understands why the kings of old settled these things with the spear.

The talks last until the sun and the first of the moons have left the sky, and she knows on Asgard the day will be well underway. She stays on guard the whole time; the possibility of Vanaheim or any of its constituent parts actually being able to stand alone at this stage is so small that these talks almost seem to be cover for something else. Still, they have to be taken seriously, and Thor is going about it perfectly. He has always been a man to follow into the jaws of death itself, but now he has the gravity and experience to know when it is wise to do so, and it shows.

Eventually they conclude, Odin’s status of Allfather of this realm reaffirmed. It had never been seriously threatened, but Thor promises a shipment of Thrudvangar wool for the rebuilding anyway, because it befits Asgard to be generous. No-one outside needs to know that these offerings are from his own assets as Odin’s warrior because the throne’s are stretched to the limit by the war.

Afterwards she is able to leave the pleasantries to the other two. Her blood muster is still undone, though she trusts her captains to have set it up and set the dead to rest. This loss is not massive, though it is the greatest her legion has suffered over any single day in these wars and her tears flow freely as she sees her men lying side by side with their eyes closed and their swords clutched in cold hands again. Too many of these men were newcomers, men only just out of training armour or men freshly placed in active service from the household legion.

Over each of them she says the words, the ritual thanksgiving for their service and sacrifice, spoken in her own name and that of the Allfather, and as always feels like she can almost feel them crumbling back to stardust beneath her fingers. Too many have been sent off in this long, long year. The active contingent of Second, Thor’s own legion, was decimated at Gylltavangar. Volstagg’s Fifth took the brunt at Austskog. Even First has taken losses.

Now, the celebration of victory seems a long way away.

-

Thor feels like he has spent the day dragging around the Kronan by the time he can gracefully call a halt to the talks. Heart heavy, he joins Sif in her blood muster for a moment, and then moves on to the other side of the clearing to carry out his own. For all these marauders were the scum of the Nine Realms and perhaps beyond, they are still his father’s people and he still has a duty to them.

The sadness contains a glimmer of relief, though. Unless things are afoot beyond Heimdall’s sight – and the one who is known to be capable of that is held secure – this is the end, at least for now. It is just as well.

More than anything, though, he is sick of warfare as he never thought he could be. Does everyone go through this in their first real war? he wonders. Sometimes, in the middle of battle, he forgets and everything is clear-edged again, honour and glory and fury and lightning. But mostly, it’s simply muddy stormclouds and the shadow of doubt dogging his heels.

There is no escape in Asgard either; everywhere he goes, someone is singing about one or another of the battles he has fought. Sometimes he feels caked in the metal of one of the great statues of Valaskjalf, bright and golden and struggling to move inside.

With the formalities done, he chews over what he said to the Circle. That it would not happen again, that Asgard was recovered and strong once more, committed to peace, while all the time he was thinking about the forced loans his father had taken from the nobility, the minority voice in the Guild’s Council saying that Asgard should set its own house in order before turning to the other worlds, the men’s distaste for the new weapons of war. Stubbornly he refuses the shadow of doubt; strength will come again, in time. Perhaps it will not be needed.

By the time he turns away from the muster, the third moon is in the sky, the clearing is bright as day, and Fandral and Volstagg have come looking for him. “Will you be at Rogeir’s halls tonight?” Fandral asks, eyes still shining.

“Yes, of course,” he replies, and thinks that by the time the Asgardian evening rolls around he will be ready to celebrate.

“I am already composing the tale!”

Then again, perhaps not. Volstagg’s words give a slight twist to his gut. He claps the older man on the back. “Then I must certainly come.”

Deep inside his ears, he starts to feel the approach of the Bifrost. “But first, I must report to Father. He will be glad to hear of this day’s work.” Swiftly it swirls into the waiting sky, and the light takes him.


End file.
